


Playing Pirates

by morganasmyths



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hamish growing up, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Single Parent Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 02:29:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11281884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganasmyths/pseuds/morganasmyths
Summary: Sherlock and John Watson-Holmes were a sort of perfect family with a little boy called Hamish. That was until John died suddenly, leaving Sherlock a broken man raising a child and balancing a career beneath his grief.





	Playing Pirates

**Author's Note:**

> Have wanted to do an angst fic for so long and am quite happy with this one.
> 
> Let me know what you think.
> 
> M x

Contrary to outside appearances, Sherlock was not a stable man. After he had sung Hamish to sleep, whispering a thousand times how much he loved him, Sherlock returned to the living room of 221B and sat down in his armchair. 

For a moment he did nothing, he simply stared at John’s armchair. Nobody sat in that, only Hamish was allowed to. Greg never tried, Mycroft wasn’t that stupid and Mrs Hudson was probably the smartest of the lot, however an old friend of John’s had come round too soon after John’s death to offer his condolences, a Mr Portman, and he had sat in John’s armchair. 

For a moment, Sherlock had just stared at the man, this obnoxious, insensitive excuse for a man who had just sat in John’s armchair as though it meant nothing, as though it were just another chair. And then that moment passed and he lost it completely. 

Sherlock had been so distraught he had screamed at the man until he had left, terrified out of his wits. Hamish had found him shaking on the floor and sobbing into his own hands. He simply curled up next to his father and began to sing quietly. Sherlock wrapped Hamish in his arms and Hamish’s singing quickly turned to crying.

“I miss him, Papa,” Hamish whispered through tears. Sherlock held him tighter.

“Me too, my darling.”

They had wept together on the carpet for a full hour before Mrs Hudson came upstairs forced them to bed. Hamish slept next to his father that night. Sherlock didn’t sleep at all that night. 

And Sherlock’s mind drifted to all the times that John had sat in that armchair: reading the paper, watching Sherlock, drinking his tea, playing with Hamish. Sometimes he had even fallen asleep in the armchair and Sherlock had carried him to bed, unable to bring himself to wake him. 

He didn’t bother putting the whiskey in the cabinet anymore. It was on the table next to his armchair and he simply poured himself a glass and began drinking. Hamish never said anything about this behaviour. He always seemed to ignore when his father did this or find some convenient excuse to leave the room. He’d understood pretty quickly that his papa needed it sometimes to deal with the pain. 

Hamish felt it too, but he coloured instead of drank. His papa had found him once, colouring in lines he had drawn messily on the page, and then left without a word. When he returned, he had bought Hamish at least ten different colouring books and now they colour together every Wednesday afternoon after Hamish finishes football practice. It’s their own sort of makeshift weekly therapy, and if for some reason Sherlock isn’t there on a Wednesday then someone else always is.

It’s usually Molly - Hamish thinks she’s very good at colouring in. She always chooses nice colours and it makes Hamish happy. Greg is not as good, but he makes Hamish laugh, so he doesn’t really mind if he chooses silly colours. Mycroft is the worst at colouring in but Hamish doesn’t mind because he tells him all sorts of stories as they colour. 

On Thursdays Sherlock and Hamish play pirates because Hamish doesn’t have a club on afterschool so that means they have the whole afternoon to themselves. Together they build a ship in the living room made out of bed sheets and harpoons and a pirate flag they bought in Cornwall is mounted on the lamp. After a while, it never got taken down. 

On Fridays they watch a movie together and Hamish always gets to choose which one. They have spaghetti bolognaise and move Sherlock’s armchair close to the TV so they can eat and watch at the same time. Every once in a while they get really naughty and have some ice cream, even though it’s late and they both should be in bed and they haven’t actually bothered with bowls so they just eat it out the tub. Hamish loves the nights they have ice cream.

A few drinks in and Sherlock already began to feel a familiar light-headedness. He picked up the bottle and made his way to his room, not fully drunk but not wanting Hamish to see him so. 

He sat down on the bed and gazed at John’s side of it. He sipped the whiskey from the bottle, and eventually managed to break his gaze away to stare straight ahead. That didn’t exactly help either, as framed on the wall was a photo of John and Sherlock on their wedding day. Sherlock blinked at it.

He drank himself to sleep. 

-

Three months ago, John Watson-Holmes died. It was tragic. Unexpected. All those shitty things they say at the funerals. Sherlock had prepared a speech and practised it. He’d managed to get through it three times without crying, but when he stood on that podium and realised that all these people were dressed in black and here for John and that none of them would ever know or appreciate him like Sherlock did he collapsed. Hamish read his speech for him. 

The first few days were the worst. He cried for five days solidly, swapping between silent tears and screaming fits. Hamish stayed at Molly’s house that week. Molly dealt with death better than Sherlock did. She always had. 

Lestrade worked overtime in those five days. It didn’t take the height of Sherlock’s deducing abilities to know that this was simply a coping method – a way of taking his mind off of John. He’d taken to drinking a lot of coffee; it was a habit that hadn’t died when his grief dimmed. 

Mrs Hudson said a lot of apologies. 

Mycroft said nothing at all.

Hamish didn’t say much either. He didn’t need Sherlock to explain why his father hadn’t come home one night. They’d simply sat on the sofa next to each other in silence, waiting for any kind of sign of John. They’d found none. He’d just disappeared. They only found his blood – a lot of it; too much of it.

Sherlock didn’t even have his body.

And when the call had come through that there was nothing to be done about John Watson-Holmes, the two of them had sat on the sofa again as the truth descended on them, sharp and fast, until Hamish was bawling into Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock was desperately trying not to do the same into Hamish’s. In the end he gave up and they both sobbed themselves to sleep.

There is not much else to be said about that first month. It was pure hell. Hamish slept next to Sherlock a lot. He didn’t like to be alone too much. After the second week, Hamish went back to school of his own accord, insisting that Daddy would’ve wanted him to. Their routine began on the third week. They were now in the twelfth week. 

The bottle was on the nightstand when he woke up. There was a stain on the floor where it had slipped out of his hands last night and spilled onto the carpet. He was still fully clothed but a blanket had been thrown over him. Next to the bottle was a glass of water and a file.

Files appeared all the time in his apartment. There was never a note, never a phone number; simply a file filled with details of a case. He hadn’t been out on a case in three months. Not since- Not since then. He chewed his lip, eyebrows creasing for a moment, and then he sat up in bed.

Groggily he reached for the file and flicked open the pages until they landed on the briefing of the case and a photograph of the deceased and the main suspect. At the bottom was an address. Sherlock looked up from the file to the photograph of his and John’s wedding. He stared at it for a long time, until his gaze flickered back to the file, and then back to John. 

15 minutes – SH

-

The Yarders tried their best not to stare, but they were all idiots and failed miserably. Sherlock knew he was a right mess, both inside and out. His coat was dusty from a lack of use, and coupled with the familiar neglect of greasy hair, persistent stubble and trembling hands, even Lestrade could deduce why he hadn’t shown up any earlier. In Sherlock’s mind, it was a miracle he had left the house at all today. 

He hated himself for this, he really did, but sometimes it was hard to pull oneself together when the love of their life dies. He tries for Hamish, but staying strong is the hardest thing Sherlock’s ever done. Living without John is the hardest thing Sherlock’s ever done.

So when he heard some of the Yarders gossiping about his mental health, and about Hamish’s wellbeing, he nearly lost it on the spot. He would’ve, if Sally Donovan hadn’t elbowed one remorselessly harshly in the ribs and glared so ruthlessly at the others they’d quivered at the knees and looked as though they might melt on the spot.  
As soon as Sherlock was out of earshot she addressed them fully.

“How dare you.” She growled. “How about I murder your husband and then gossip about the state of your kids? That man has suffered more heartbreak than you will ever know combined and in just three months he’s become strong enough to help the police on a backyard murder that they don’t really need him for. If I hear one more word out of anyone in this company, I will have you fired immediately.”

No one ever said a word about Sherlock’s family again.

He and Lestrade solved the case. It was the gardener. He was turning to go home when Sally appeared by his side. He had noticed she had disappeared around the corner about ten minutes ago. She glanced away from him for a moment, not meeting his eyes and shuffling from foot to foot. Eventually she placed a chocolate bar in his hands. 

“Releases endorphins,” she mumbled uselessly. They both already knew this, but Sherlock appreciated the gesture more than he thought he would.

“Thank you,” he said quietly in return. He stared at the chocolate the whole way home.

-

Sherlock and John used to tease each other as to who Hamish was going to take after the most, and what aspects of his character they would both contribute to him. Sherlock immediately assigned himself in the brains department, so John had rolled his eyes and attributed himself to everything else. To which Sherlock had disagreed and the whole feud had begun. Whenever Hamish did something distinctly recognisable to one of their own habits, they announced loudly that they were winning even though there was no official points system or even competition.

Hamish grew up very quickly. He was just like John to begin with, all short and pudgy in all the right areas, but then his growth spurt hit and he was just like Sherlock. He liked to tease his father that it was his life goal to reach Sherlock’s height, an event which Sherlock had sworn would never happen. Hamish was lithe in both body and mind. He was good at what he did and he was dedicated. Fiercely loyal to his friends, Sherlock saw him grow into John more and more every day. 

Although it wasn’t like Sherlock had had no influence on the boy whatsoever. His passion for Chemistry and Geography had him taking to Cambridge University in the autumn, and what child of Sherlock’s could walk past a crime scene without insulting at least one officer?

Admittedly, Hamish had slightly grown out of that habit bar a few exceptions, but Sally found it hilarious, Lestrade found it endearing, and Anderson found it annoying which was the best of all. That man always complained about Sherlock’s questionable parenting techniques when he brought Hamish onto crime scenes. At first it had all been about playing with the equipment and the evidence and the corpses (which is the cause behind the long story of why Hamish was convicted of multiple murders before he could talk), but later it had grown into a truly Sherlockian fascination with the job at hand and the psychology behind it.

He was popular at school (John’s contribution) but an academic success (Sherlock’s contribution, John would disagree) which landed him with many friends who were wary at first of his parental situation, but after time became more comfortable. The first time Hamish brought friends home he was twelve, and it was a Wednesday. Sherlock had returned from work to find four kids and Molly Hooper sprawled on his floor colouring in pictures of flowers.

The traditions never ended. By fifteen, Hamish almost had a rota of people who came round every week. At eighteen, Sherlock knew all of them by heart. On Wednesdays it was Rory, Lily and Ulna who had long since befriended Molly and always chatted to her about relationship troubles. 

On Thursdays, James and Ila came round to play Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann and occasionally Jack Morris came round demanding that the coincidental names of Jack Morris and Jack Sparrow was, in fact, not a coincidence but destiny and thus he must be captain. 

On Fridays it was really whoever felt like it. Livy Toll came round every other Friday in tears due to her most recent partner (once again) being a massive dick. Sherlock was pretty sure her dating history was even more catastrophic than Molly’s – a statement which she did not appreciate. Hamish was more than happy to offer her ice cream from the tub and movies. Sherlock had long since suspected that Hamish slightly fancied her, but he’d never seen Livy in an emotionally stable enough state to judge properly what he feelings were for him.

They may have had a routine, but that didn’t mean it was constant. Every two months or so, they were forced to cancel colouring in or playing pirates. Sherlock, as previously mentioned, was not a stable man. John’s death was not an event that had fizzled out with time, or even had gotten any easier to cope with; Sherlock had just found better ways to deal with it.

It was a Thursday evening in November. Sherlock simply lost it. Hamish had grown used to these outbursts over the years. He understood that sometimes screaming was the most effective coping strategy in a situation. Nevertheless, he had insisted that it was Livy’s idea that they continue with Friday’s tradition, despite the fact that the meltdown had not ceased the following morning and Hamish had missed half of his school day to care for his father. 

He went to school at lunchtime and gathered up every friend who ever came to their weekly traditions and anyone else who was willing to come. He explained briefly the situation and soon found himself with a myriad of people wanting to help. 

And that’s the story of how Sherlock Watson-Holmes found himself curled up in his armchair watching ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ with over thirty teenagers having crammed themselves into his living room. Rain drummed soothingly on the windows and the constant clink of spoons into bowls of ice cream was strangely comforting. 

The teenagers had piled in, having brought ice cream and sweets for the occasion, and squished themselves into the room, sitting on top of each other, legs here and there, limbs belonging to several people at once. There were even seven people on the sofa which Sherlock had not been aware was possible. Hamish was leant against Sherlock’s armchair, fully invested in the movie, one arm around Livy’s shoulders and the other cradling a bowl of ice cream.

Sherlock glanced around the room, taking a moment to watch all the gazes staring at the TV from the floor. John’s chair was empty.

For the first time since his husband died, Sherlock smiled a genuine smile. John was always here, in the very essence of all of this. Maybe they could live on. Hamish turned around and shot him a wolfish grin, one that he recognised so well in John. His eyes were lit up with a childlike joy he had refused to lose over the years. Sherlock’s heart swelled with pride.

Yeah, they’d be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it, please let me know what you think in the comments!
> 
> Does anybody want a part two? I like it like this but I have a few ideas - let's just say someone makes a return.
> 
> I'm open to requests as always, please don't be shy x


End file.
